David Biespiel’s Poetry Wire: 21 Poems That Shaped America (Pt. 1): “The Idea of Ancestry”
I know / their dark eyes, they know mine.
Rumpus Original
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Bodies in Space: Teaching after Trauma
Turning onto my street and looking south I feel the ground drop beneath me every time—I turn the corner and the sidewalk falls. I feel invisible then, as if I’ve vaporized.
The Rumpus Interview with Stephanie Danler
Stephanie Danler discusses her debut novel, Sweetbitter, writing sensually, and the power of an authentic voice.
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: Trouble in Mind
I wasn’t blue always; my campus rape didn’t ruin my life. But at times I’ve found being a woman exhausting.
Voices on Addiction: The Ghost Inside
But was I an alcoholic? The idea had never crossed my mind. The more I reflected on it, the less I understood.
The Rumpus Interview with Connie Wanek
Connie Wanek discusses her latest book, Rival Gardens: New and Selected Poems, the challenge of looking back at older poems, and what prioritizing writing looks like.
You’ve Got Mail and the Internet of Ordinary People
You’ve Got Mail was one of the first movies to depict the Internet as it affects the lives of ordinary users.
Albums of Our Lives: Modest Mouse’s The Lonesome Crowded West
How Isaac Brock sings it, it’s nearly cheerful, almost an anthem: I’m trying / I’m trying to / drink away the part of the day that I cannot sleep away.
The Middle Season
My doctor told me to begin with adding five minutes to my morning walk. During those five minutes, I recalled the life I’d once had—that intense life that ambition gave me—and the man I’d once been.
The Rumpus Interview with Russell Banks
Russell Banks discusses his new book, Voyager: Travel Writings, why we are never free from our history, and how writing saved his life.
(K)ink: Writing While Deviant: Simon Copland
Writing is not just about expressing myself creatively, or even about having my voice heard: it is about releasing some part of myself.
The Sunday Rumpus Essay: To Prey on Birds
I am alone. Alone with my small size, my cracking bones, and the guilt that wraps around my spine like a jungle vine. Don’t be hysterical, I repeat to myself.